


Miserere Mei

by biscuitsy



Series: The London Excursion [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 10:17:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13362522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biscuitsy/pseuds/biscuitsy
Summary: In every dark corner of King’s Row sat an omnic, sadness expressed on their emotionless metal faces, keeping to themselves and scraping what meager living they could find among the dazzling lights of the beautiful, terrifying, unforgiving city, all the while constantly watching their backs for anti-omnic gangs. It had become something of a local gang custom to leave at least one omnic a week in a state of heavy disrepair beneath Mondatta’s statue for the locals to find in the morning.And one winter’s night beneath Mondatta’s endlessly forgiving gaze, lightly dusted in the snow that had just started to fall, was where that week’s victim was found by two men.





	Miserere Mei

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all! I haven't written fic in a good 4 years but I am currently in McHanzo hell and had an idea, so here it is. The song used for this fic is "Miserere Mei o Deus" by Allegri, which you can listen to here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3s45XOnYOIw.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Not far behind the shining towers of King’s Row lay what had colloquially come to be known as the Old District. An apt name, straight to the point and a fitting descriptor; next to the neon skyscrapers, the cobblestone streets and brick facades looked incredibly ancient, more than they actually were. The clock tower had been given a recent facelift and now relied on a holographic display to tell time, replacing the wrought iron clock hands that had reliably told time for over two hundred years. Rather than let the neighbourhood deteriorate, the local government had upscaled King’s Row into a novelty- a charming, safe (and very expensive) neighbourhood, keeping the history of London alive in its walls and roads for all to see just how far science and technology had advanced.  
  
People need not have looked far to see the technological progress made. In every dark corner of King’s Row sat an omnic, sadness expressed on their emotionless metal faces, keeping to themselves and scraping what meager living they could find among the dazzling lights of the beautiful, terrifying, unforgiving city, all the while constantly watching their backs for anti-omnic gangs. It had become something of a local gang custom to leave at least one omnic a week in a state of heavy disrepair beneath Mondatta’s statue for the locals to find in the morning.  
  
And one winter’s night beneath Mondatta’s endlessly forgiving gaze, lightly dusted in the snow that had just started to fall, was where that week’s victim was found by two men.  
  
In a multitude of pieces was an omnic with a hawkish, pointed design to his face and wide, blue eyes that took in everything around him. His limbs sparked at the joints, having been forcefully removed earlier in the night, cables and pieces of metal trailing away into the alleys. A blue fluid leaked from the cracks in his torso and ran in rivulets down the cobblestone like a perverse river of blood. He regarded the humans before him as if they might take a swing at whatever pieces of him had managed to stay together, and was visibly confused when nothing of the sort happened. The man closest to him looked from the omnic’s face to his phone, then back again.  
  
“Yep, this is the one… You’re Owl, right?” the man said, low and quiet, as he knelt to the omnic’s eye level and held him steady. Owl could hear the damaged gears and systems whirring in his own neck as he nodded with every ounce of effort left in him. His gaze went from the man’s outlandishly western boots to the Stetson sat neatly on his head to his belt buckle and back again, and the man managed something resembling a smile. “Name’s McCree. Can you tell us who did this to you?”  
  
Owl craned his head forward as much as his broken body would allow, looking at the second human behind McCree. This one regarded the omnic with some sense of indifference, more focused on keeping watch while McCree tried to leaned back into his field of vision. His dark hair, shaved on the sides and long on the top, trembled ever so slightly as the man shuddered in the cold and pulled his black jacket tight around himself.  
  
“...Local gang,” Owl said finally, voice cracked and distorted. “Call themselves the Saviours.” He spat the name, McCree nodding at the irony of their name versus their deeds.  
  
“Anywhere they like to hang out? I’d very much like to have some words with ‘em.” McCree laid a hand on his hip, not far from the holster of a gun that Owl had not noticed until then. The omnic lurched where he sat, groaning as fluid escaped his sockets, and McCree positioned his hands to catch Owl. “Easy, easy. We got some good tech people, gonna fix you up just fine.”

  


Behind McCree, the other man grimaced.  
  
“He cannot be saved… we have come too late for him.”  
  
“Hanzo, for god’s sake--”  
  
“He’s right.” Owl’s words were quick, faster than they had been before, as if he had much to say and no time to say it. “...They’re probably in the alleys around the corner from here. There’s a disused Tube station… t-that’s where they’re based. Blue gang colours. We try to avoid them, they just--”

  


“I know, kid, I know… ain’t fair. Ain’t right, what they’re doing. So I’m gonna go sort them out, make sure they don’t bust up any more omnics. And King’s Row might just get a little safer for everyone, yeah?”

  


Owl laughed. “That’ll be... the day.” His shoulder socket sparked and the omnic spat a small curse. “I-I only went out for supplies, you know? I didn’t think…”

  


“Didn’t think this is how the night would end?” McCree finished for him. Snowflakes caught on the brim of his hat, and he idly removed the garment to dust them off. His mouth was set, stony, keeping all but a sliver of emotion back. “‘M sorry.”

  


Owl sat silent, regarding McCree, before using what precious energy remained to shake his head. “...Thank you for being here. McCree, was it…?” Owl’s voice lilted as he took in the scene one last time; sat beneath Mondatta’s statue, navy sky above him and the pale orange glow of the street lights catching the corners of buildings, shining through the snowflakes as they fell around him in soft clumps.  
  
“For all that’s happened here… it’s really beautiful, you know?” Owl said, in a voice laden with so much sadness that McCree wondered if the omnic before him was more human than all the citizens of King’s Row combined.  
  
The constant whirring from Owl’s broken body faded, and his head craned up one last time to regard the golden omnic statue above him. The wide, blue eyes dimmed, faded into black, and the street fell silent once more as Owl died.  
  
\-----  
“What do we do with him?” Hanzo asked, clinically detached from the situation as he usually was, and zipped up the front of his jacket against the cold. He folded his arms and watched McCree place Owl’s body in the alcove below Mondatta’s statue, where flowers were occasionally laid in the shambali’s memory. McCree pulled out a single cigar and lit it, smoke rising into the air as he regarded Owl for just a moment longer, and Hanzo was suddenly put in mind of funerary incense. He grimaced, remembering the last time he had lit any was for Genji. On the advent of finding his brother alive, the tradition of breaking into Hanamura and burning incense had stopped; until he saw the smoke swirl around Owl’s broken body, Hanzo had not realised how much connection incense had with violence.  
  
“Lena’s off around Numbani this week. No agents nearby to take him, ‘n we can hardly ask Emily to deal with it. Winston's gonna have to tell our client we came too late. Shit...” McCree tsk'ed into the night air and Hanzo had half a mind to do the same- a failed mission did not reflect well on them. Their objective had been to find and escort Owl to safety after the omnic did not return home.  
  
The cowboy squared his shoulders, coughed gently into the night air and laid his hand back on the holster of Peacekeeper. “Off to this Tube station, methinks.”  
  
  
Hanzo acquiesced with a nod, following the trail of graffiti and omnic parts into the alleyway. The gang could not have been more conspicuous if they tried; in lieu of a sign were anti-omnic slogans, and what Hanzo parsed was the word “Saviours” in almost unreadable font. Like a trail of breadcrumbs to the witch’s cottage, the scraps of omnic- what had once been part of a perfectly functioning Owl- led into a musty Tube tunnel. The smell of dirt and smoke hit Hanzo like a wall and he physically recoiled.  
  
“Can you do us a bit of recon, darlin’?”  
  
The archer rolled his eyes. McCree would never cease with his pet names, and Hanzo had long since stopped asking him to call him by his name and not an affection. It served as a good gauge for McCree’s mood- if he called Hanzo by his actual name, his mood was likely to be sour. With a fluidity perfected over decades of practice Hanzo took a sonic arrow from his quiver, knocked it and fired into the pitch black of the Tube station.  
  
“Marked.” The sonic arrow hummed gently, pitch increasing as the waves passed over multiple bodies. “...No more than seven people. Hardly a challenge.”

  


 

“Depends what they’re packin’.” Hanzo watched as McCree produced his phone from a pocket, accessing whatever data Winston had managed to piece together about the ongoing crisis of King’s Row for their mission. “Data says this gang’s pretty small time. Likely don’t have access to anythin’ we need to worry about.”

  


“Then let’s scatter their ranks, and let the authorities deal out their punishments.”

  


McCree huffed a small laugh, and Hanzo frowned. “Mighty optimistic about justice bein’ served here, huh?”  
  
Hanzo remained silent. The archer rolled his shoulders and knocked one more arrow, drawing it back halfway before splitting the tip into a scatter shot.

  


“On three.”  
  
Maneuvering his cigar to the side of his mouth, McCree led the count. “One, two…”  
  
The third beat heralded a rain of scatter arrows down the station staircase. From deep in the dark was several voices yelping, one in obvious pain, and Hanzo did not miss the snarled smile that quirked the side of McCree’s mouth. The pair leapt into the dark, taking the staircase in long jumps, until the darkness gave way to a stale fluorescent light. Huddled around a corner, Hanzo watched one man- no older than perhaps seventeen or eighteen- clutching his thigh and making sounds unbecoming of a street hardened thug, as six other similarly aged boys scrabbled for whatever weapons they had lying around. Their clothing was dark, camouflaging them against the night, and all of them wore a blue bandana somewhere on their person.  
“Blue gang colours,” Hanzo affirmed to his partner, letting McCree take the lead as the cowboy strode into the abandoned station.  
  
“Just a buncha kids, huh,” McCree noted. Hanzo saw the gunslinger’s shake of the head from his peripheral vision, heard him tut, before he strode forward to confront the gang. 

  


“Stick ‘em up,” the gunslinger drawled, low and practiced and incredibly clichéd, and made a show of cocking Peacekeeper before taking aim at the frontmost thug. Hanzo suppressed another roll of the eyes and took stock of the room- whining and whimpering as he was, the thug whom he had hit with the scatter arrow was likely neutralised. Another thug had managed to pick up a cricket bat armed with rows of nails, but was reconsidering his plan now that he was staring down the barrel of Peacekeeper. Another one of the gang was armed with knuckle dusters, and therefore completely useless in the gunfight McCree threatened. The rest kneeled where they had been sitting, panicked and furious and cowering before the agents as their chances of freedom waned.  
  
With all the effort one might use to swat a fly, McCree shot the cricket bat from the armed boy’s hands and seemed to take some delight in the yelp he made. “Now, if you’ll be followin’ me outside, we’ll get the authorities clued in on what you’ve been up to tonight.”  
  
The now batless thug raised his hands slowly, biting out a harsh laugh in spite of his fear. “Like the police give two shits about some omnic gettin’ fucked up on King’s bloody Row.”  
  
McCree shot again, this time square between the boy’s feet, and Hanzo swore the child was on the verge of wetting himself. “You got biscuits in your ears? _Outside_ ,” McCree admonished, as if talking to a toddler. With a gun pressed between his prey’s shoulder blades, McCree started to lead the first thug up the stairs and dialled for backup with his free hand. “Keep these other ones in place for a minute, darlin’.”  
  
Several of the unarmed boys cowered towards the far wall of the tunnel, eyes darting into the darkness of the disused train tracks and back to Hanzo, twice in quick succession. The hairs on Hanzo’s neck bristled.  
  
“McCree--”  
  
The darkened train tunnels lit up in several cracks of light, the boom of gunfire echoing down the tiled walls. Moving on instinct, Hanzo ducked low and released an arrow into the gunfire, cursing as their assailant refused to come out. The gang fled into the darkness, rallying behind their saviour in a chorus of shouts and heckles.  
  
“Shit--!” McCree’s voice rang out, preceding a flash bang that sailed over Hanzo’s shoulder and into the tunnel, exploding at a pair of feet and illuminating the new figure briefly- another man, one the sonic arrow had not picked up, wielding a rifle and preparing to reload the shot. From his veil of darkness the man fired again and the spray peppered against McCree’s metal arm. McCree hissed a curse and rolled to the side, using a pillar as cover as Hanzo leant back around the corner they had come from. From his vantage point he saw McCree fiddle with the joints and cables of his prosthesis, trying to stem the shaking and sparking that erupted from it, teeth grit in a mixture of annoyance and pain.  
  
“Coward!” Hanzo spat out before he could stifle the words, switching his scatter arrow for a sonic arrow and knocking it in a single swift motion. “If you will not show yourself willingly--”  
  
The arrow launched into the dark, and the waves pinged off the gang in a dull blue. The rifle wielding thug- the gang leader, Hanzo presumed- stepped into the light and puffed his chest out as if challenging the archer. This one, unlike the others, was covered in something resembling oil, splattering out in a pattern from left to right, shining iridescence in the harsh light- _omnic fluid_ \- and Hanzo was surprised at how much it looked like blood.  
  
“You _really_ spoilin’ for a rumble over a fucking omnic, mate?” the leader said, clearly proud of his murder of Owl, and wiped half his face free of the omnic’s blood with the back of his hand.

  


The rest of the gang had gone eerily silent, and the sonic arrows pulses dimmed and faded as they all took a knee and reached for racks lined against the wall, pulling something from them--  
  
_Guns_ , Hanzo realised. Hidden out of sight. Half of the thugs were terrible shots, but two bullets came close to hitting his right leg and side. One bullet sailed past his head as he dove out of the way, and his ear rang in protest. His hand sailed toward his quiver, ready to try another scatter arrow--  
  
“ _Draw_.”  
  
McCree’s voice was loud, booming, confident. Calm and deadly. The last word these boys would ever hear. Eight shots rang out from Peacekeeper’s six-chambered cylinder, and Hanzo heard the sounds of eight bodies thudding to the floor. He turned, regarding McCree as he stepped from behind the pillar and toward the darkened tunnel. The ill-timed fluorescent lighting above cruelly flickered on, off, on again rapidly, giving them only glimpses of what remained of the gang. Eight dead teenagers, all shot squarely between the eyes.  
  
Hanzo released a sigh he had not realised he was holding. He returned the arrow he had been knocking into his quiver and got to his feet, taking a step towards McCree as the gunslinger wobbled in place.  
  
“Are you injured?”

  


“No-- no. Jus’...” McCree crooned, voice rough and low, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Headache.”  
  
Hanzo nodded stiffly. This was not uncommon for McCree. The “Deadeye”, as he recalled McCree naming it, took an enormous amount of effort to do. It occured to Hanzo that McCree would have had to shoot around the archer in almost complete darkness, and he made a mental note to not chide McCree so hard when they were next at the practice range.  
  
“And your arm?”  
  
McCree shrugged noncommittally. His metal arm had stopped sparking but the fingers were set in an odd pose, as if they had seized up and now refused to move. “‘S fine.”  
  
“...We should call Winst--”  
  
“Can we jus’… not? Not right now?”  
  
Hanzo stopped. It was only then the archer noticed how McCree held himself in that moment. McCree usually oozed confidence, an annoying degree of sass and swagger in equal measure. Instead McCree’s shoulders were slumped, his posture slouched, his flesh hand holding onto the joint where his left arm met the prosthesis. McCree’s gaze shifted from one thug, to another, then the next, and back around again until he huffed a sigh, the saddest sound Hanzo had ever heard him make.  
  
“...I didn’t wanna kill ’em. They were just stupid kids.” He knelt down besides the leader’s body, watching the slivers of red blood trailing from his forehead mix with Owl’s blood until they were indistinguishable from each other.  
  
“‘Stupid kids’ who were on the wrong side of the law and tried to kill us first. They had to be neutralised.”  
  
The gunslinger looked over his shoulder at Hanzo, his eyes sad. Angry. Knowing. And Hanzo remembered just where the outlaw, vigilante for justice, former Deadlock Gang gunslinger Jesse McCree had come from.  
  
“...McCree--”

  


“Call it in with Winston, please. Gonna step out for some air.”  
  
As if Hanzo had not said a word, McCree strode past him and up into the staircase, leaving Hanzo to document their night’s gruesome work.  
  
\-----  
  
McCree was not there when Hanzo exited the station.  
  
By the time he had documented the scene, sent an abridged report to Winston and called for backup to secure the tunnels, the sun had risen on King’s Row. The snow was lighter now, falling in smaller flakes, barely masking the footprints McCree had made as he strode off into the high street. Hanzo considered giving him space to vent the barely restrained anger he had seen in McCree’s eyes. He watched the snow begin to mask McCree’s trail for a moment longer before following it, disappearing into the morning fog.  
  
He emerged at the other side of an alleyway that opened onto a wide street. Caught between the Old District and the New was a cathedral, white stone shining as brightly as any of the glass buildings that framed it. The footprints left by McCree disappeared into the entryway, there was no doubt. No other person in London wore custom made cowboy boots that left the word “BAMF” imprinted wherever they walked. Feeling somewhat like an intruder, Hanzo crossed the threshold of the cathedral and into the hallway, trying his hardest to avoid eye contact with the little old biddy cleaning the wooden banisters.  
  
“Come to watch choir practice, sir?”

  


Damn. “I--... Did a man come in here? He is wearing cowboy boots… and a hat.” Hanzo made a vague hat tipping motion, the one McCree so often made at him, and felt a little foolish.  
  
“Ah yes, he disappeared into the pews somewhere. Choir is starting in a few minutes, if you’d like to watch.”  
  
Hanzo bowed a short thank you, following her extended arm into the cathedral interior. The tiny hallway opened onto a grand room, the ceiling arched high and holding the weight of several saints looking down from the support pillars. The white walls and tapestries gave way to a set of stained glass windows several stories high, documenting the story of Christ and many important saints in stunning arrays of colour that beamed down onto a choir of boys, warming up to sing. Four of them were around the same age as the boys who had sat in the Tube station, bullets through their skulls, and Hanzo forced his gaze towards the pews.  
  
McCree was impossible to miss, his scruffy exterior sticking out like a sore thumb against the pristine cathedral walls. His hat was in his lap, head bowed over it. Hanzo wondered if he was perhaps praying. McCree never seemed the religious type. Siddling between the pews, Hanzo took a seat behind the cowboy.  
  
“Something is troubling you.” He observed, staying detached for the moment. When he received no response, he wondered if McCree had even heard him. Hanzo’s hands found each other, interlinking his fingers and letting them hang in the space between his legs. “...McCree.”  
  
At his name the cowboy looked up, staring ahead into the stained glass depiction of Mary with the baby messiah. “Sorry. Kinda tired, is all… I’m fine.”  
  
“To borrow a phrase you used on me only last week, that is bullshit and you know it.”  
  
To Hanzo’s surprise, McCree huffed a small, genuine laugh. The archer had long thought he lacked the ability to make anyone laugh. He dared to push his luck.  
  
“Talk to me, McCree.”  
  
Whatever smile McCree had left was quickly gone, replaced by a troubled, pensive frown. “I weren’t much different from those kids, you know. I was a ‘stupid kid on the wrong side of the law’ once, Hanzo. Hell, I still am.”  
  
First name. Hanzo’s grip on his hands tightened ever so slightly. “...I should have considered my words more carefully. I apologise.”  
  
McCree finally turned to regard the archer, some vague surprise to his expression. “ _You_ , apologisin’? Shit, what a day this is. You’re fine, darlin’. You meant nothin’ by it.”  
  
Tension Hanzo had not realised he had pent up slowly eased out of him, and he relaxed in his seat. Never had he thought that McCree’s awful, corny pet names would bring him any sort of relief. At the front of the hall the choir had assembled, dressed in the traditional robes, and stood awaiting the conductor’s entrance. The boys warmed up, going through the musical scales in their assigned vocal range, and Hanzo was stunned at the youngest boy who sang in soprano.  
  
“Y’ever heard a choir, Hanz?”  
  
“I have not. Christianity is still somewhat rare in Japan. I am only familiar with Shinto and Buddhist singing.”  
  
“You’re missin’ out. They’re playin’ a good one today.”  
  
McCree produced a hymn book from the back of the pew in front of him, turning to the front page. “Miserere Mei, by Allegri. Got pirated by Mozart, ‘s the only reason the song still exists today, maybe you’ve heard of it?”  
  
Hanzo shook his head, pulling his own hymn book from the pew and turning to the lyrics. “...This is Latin?”  
  
“Right,” McCree affirmed. “Lotta the old hymns are. This one goes, ‘Have mercy upon me, O God, after Thy great goodness. According to the multitude of Thy mercies, do away mine offences.’ Bit depressin’. Beautiful song though.”  
  
“I did not know you could read Latin.” Hanzo could not belay the tone his voice took on- a hint of admiration, or perhaps impress. McCree smiled his sad little smile once more and traced the lyrics with a metal finger that whirred and shook with damage.  
  
“Brought up religious, you pick up a bit of Latin singin’ all the hymns. That, n' Sunday School. Didn’t much take to religion, but damn if the tunes ain’t good.” The gunslinger watched the boys chatting amongst themselves, paragons of good behaviour, and huffed another laugh. “Man, did I fall off the wagon hard. Shoulda stayed in church.”  
  
The question Hanzo wanted to ask hung in the air for a few moments, and he wondered if McCree wanted him to ask as well. “...How did you come to be in the Deadlock Gang?”  
  
McCree slumped, not with sadness, but as if tension was gently leaked from him. As if he had wanted to get this off his chest for a long time.  
  
“Pa died when I was nine-ish. He was the one who taught me to shoot, right from when I could hold a gun. Ma tried to raise me good, did her best by me, but… poor widow in the middle of nowhere with no job prospects wasn’t gonna last long. Did what she could, I did what I could. Worked odd jobs. Ma got sick, and I took whatever job that was gonna pay her medical bills. And there ain’t nothin’ gang leaders love more than dumb kids like me down on their luck, needin’ money and willin’ to do most anythin’ for it.  
  
“So I was a hired gun, and… well, I got good at it. Even got Ma her damn medicine. She found out about my ‘job’, eventually… good lord, was that a tough conversation. She was so disappointed in me. Begged me to leave, but I was finally gettin’ the money to keep her in the standin’ I’d always wanted for her. Couldn’t leave anyway- once you’re in the gang, you don’t get out alive.”  
  
Hanzo listened intently, his gaze on the choir still chatting, their faces very telling of the infinitely happier upbringing they had. In spite of himself, he grinned wryly- he knew a thing or two about disappointed parents.  
  
“Then Ma goes and gets herself caught in a gang war. Just out gettin’ the god damn groceries, and…” McCree managed to make the shape of a gun with his metal hand, raised his fingertip to the stained glass Mary, and made a firing motion. “Gone. Like that. And what young, dumb kid with no family is gonna say no to havin’ a whole gang behind him as he gets his revenge? So I killed, and killed again, and killed as I much as I needed to until I felt like justice had been served. I killed to survive. ‘N some of ‘em were maybe just innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire like Ma was, y’know?”  
  
McCree’s voice cracked, just barely. He stopped to gather himself, cough and bury his nose in the hymn book again, translating more of the lyrics. “‘Wash me thoroughly from my wickedness: and cleanse me from my sin. For I acknowledge my faults: and my sin is ever before me.’”  
  
Hanzo searched for the right words- consoling at length was not a skill he had refined over his near-forty years. “Given the circumstances, you did what you thought was best. Were I in a similar situation, I likely would have done the same.”  
  
McCree shrugged, a slight inclination of the head. “Lotta people would. Doesn’t mean it was the right thing to do. I shoulda given those boys a chance, just as Reyes had done for me, and I didn’t. You came so close to bein’ shot, ‘n I just... saw red. And I shot ‘em dead where they stood. Weren’t right, or fair, or honourable. None of it. Dunno how to start forgivin' myself for it, if I'm bein' honest.”  
  
Hanzo thought of Genji, of the night they met again at Hanamura. _I have accepted what I am, and I have forgiven you. Now you must forgive yourself._ It had seemed an impossible ideal, and still did some days. The feeling of forgiveness came through in small trickles, like the days when Hana and Lucio would accost him and ask his opinion on a piece of music to settle a debate about whose taste was better.  
  
Like the days when Winston would engage him in rousing conversation, despite how little Hanzo spoke.  
  
Like how Genji had stuck to his word, bearing no malice to Hanzo as he gently coaxed him into this second shot at Overwatch, talking to him about his hobbies and fancies as they did when they were young, as though Hanzo had never raised a sword against him. As though nothing had ever happened.  
  
Like the days when he and McCree would spend hours doing both everything and nothing, from simple target practice to figurative pissing contests to see who was the better shot, and drinking away the results in a Gibraltar bar.  
  
Like the days when they would simply sit and talk on top of the training facility, gaze cast over the Gibraltar waters with McCree slowly, gently, expertly chipping at the walls Hanzo had built around himself, bringing him out of his shell in ways that would make Genji even greener with sheer envy.  
  
Like the days when the gunslinger would simply give Hanzo his time and attention and made Hanzo’s chest curl with a warmth that the archer eventually identified as happiness.  
  
Hanzo stood. McCree jerked slightly, watching Hanzo leave the pew before coming back around to sit next to the gunslinger, and seemed relieved that Hanzo did not leave the cathedral entirely.  
  
“I think,” Hanzo started, sounding uncharacteristically unsure of his words. “That honour resides in one’s actions. You joined a gang to finance the treatment for your mother’s disease. You comforted a dying omnic as best you could. You were forced to shoot a gang who were trying to kill us, and who had just murdered someone else. In doing so, you made King’s Row safer for the omnics who live there. I do not see much wrong with that.”  
  
If Genji could listen to him now, he would never hear the end of it. _Quoting me, anija? You’ve grown soft, hanging around with McCree! I should have introduced you to him years ago! Sasuga, Jesse…_ Hanzo could hear his voice perfectly clear in his head, robotic filter and all, and he looked to the pews to make sure Genji had not somehow been spying on him the whole time.  
  
“I killed a lotta folks who maybe didn’t deserve it, Hanzo.”  
  
“You forget who you are talking to.”  
  
The silence that hung between them lingered somewhere between mildly tense and outright unbearable. McCree shuffled in place, hand idly scratching his beard and conveniently blocking Hanzo’s view of his face. “So what about you, Hanz? I know the Genji stuff, but… before that. When you were a kid. What were you like?”  
  
“When I was a kid,” Hanzo repeated, settling back into the hardwood of the pew. “I was… rambunctious. Loud. Something of a brat. Did not take my role as heir seriously until I was about eleven. My mother spoiled me rotten.”  
  
“What was her name?”  
  
McCree’s interest in Hanzo’s life story was not nearly as intrusive as Hanzo expected it to be, and the words flowed easily. “Misaki. She was… kind. Funny. Could not sit still for a moment. A lot like Genji, come to think of it. She died young, as well. Disease. I was ten at the time.”  
  
McCree looked at his knees, linking his hands the same way Hanzo did. “‘M sorry.”  
  
Hanzo simply shrugged- it was decades too late to change her fate. “After she died, my father bore down harder on me. Genji was free to do as he pleased… I think it reminded my father of her. Perhaps it felt like she were still there, flitting about the castle, making the servants laugh and leaving me random presents the way she used to. I did not realise this at the time, and I grew resentful of how unrestrained he was- as hard as I worked to inherit the clan… I think I would have prefered the freedom Genji was afforded.  
  
“He would away to the arcade to play and flirt and heaven knows what else, while I would be trapped in one of my tutoring sessions. Twelve hours a day of English, maths, business studies, kyudo, five different forms of kenjutsu, shodo... I bore the burden as best I could, until I came of age… and then my father died. Rather than take over the house, like I had been trained all my life to do, the elders took it instead. And I snapped. Like a bowstring pulled too taut. I simply broke. And the elders-- they wanted me to--”  
  
Hanzo stuttered. For how far he had come in his reconciliation with Genji, talking about the night he ‘died’ was near impossible. McCree’s look of sympathy nearly broke him- Hanzo could still not grasp how McCree even gave him the time of day, let alone his company- and he drew in a large breath before continuing.  
  
“I killed, and I ran, and I continued killing as much as I had to to survive. And perhaps some innocent people were caught in the crossfire… For how different we are in heart and mind, you and I,” Hanzo began, realisation dawning on his face as he said the words. “...are not so different at all.” When Hanzo looked over at McCree, he found the cowboy staring. Mouth ajar, looking from Hanzo’s eyes to his hair to anywhere except back at his intense gaze. He opened his mouth to speak--  
  
\--and the choir started.  
  
_"Miserere Mei, o Deus…"_  
  
The choir of boys, so much like the ones that now lay dead in the tunnels beneath King’s Row, sung in a harmony Hanzo had not believed capable of humans before that moment. His lack of Latin did not stem the hymn’s message- a solemn prayer, a wish to become a better person, pleading for some form of guidance. At some point he made a manual effort to close his mouth, finding it ever so slightly agape as the boy soprano from earlier reached an impossibly high note, holding it at length before the elder boys led them into the next chorus. The deeper voices chanted briefly, notes dipping at the end in a melodic sadness, before the higher voices joined in to lead the choir back into another rendition of the haunting high notes.  
  
It was unlike anything Hanzo had ever heard, and it was beautiful.  
  
When he next looked over at McCree, the cowboy had his forehead rested on his interlaced fingers. Hanzo again wondered if he was praying. Perhaps crying. He raised a gloved hand and gently laid it on McCree’s shoulder, riding out the final harmonies of the choir with his eyes closed.  
  
The singing finished, and Hanzo could hear the acoustics of the cathedral carry the last note for an age. He gripped McCree’s shoulder gently, just once, and placed it back in his lap. Almost immediately McCree stood, his frame higher and the weight on his shoulders somehow lighter. He tried a smile, unsure and not completely genuine, and returned his stetson back to its rightful place on his head.  
  
“We can only try to do better, right?”  
  
Hanzo nodded, and stood. “And get better, in time.” The archer watched the choirboys leave the steps they had sung from and pour out of the room, toward the landlady from earlier who had produced steaming mugs of cocoa to warm their hands. An idea stirred within him.  
  
“Come. We are going to find a pub, and we will drink until we are happy again.”  
  
McCree looked as if Christmas had come early, and Hanzo fought down the relief that swelled in him at the sight. “Going for a _pint_ , really? I remember the first time I mentioned any drink other than sake to ya. ‘Such unsophisticated taste!’” McCree’s impression of Hanzo was nothing short of gratuitous. “And it’s, what, nine in the morning?”

  


“We are grown adults, and we will drink when we please. Now come, I will drink you under the table.”  
  
McCree’s short bark of laughter echoed into the hallway as they made for the high street. “Where’s this side of you come from, eh Hanz? Did my bad habits finally rub off on ya?”  
  
“No such thing. It’s been a taxing night, and I am in need of a drink… or five,” Hanzo retorted, tone light and playful around the edges if one listened carefully. Their pub of choice lay at the top of a short hill, not terribly far away from the banks of the Thames, a quaint but well dressed place with a bright sun on the sign outside. The interior was dark and comforting, dark wooden tables sat between plush leather seats and far too many signs on the walls. The pair found the quietest corner they could and, pints in hand, McCree led them in a toast.  
  
“To gettin’ better.”  
  
“And to doing better.”  
  
The smile McCree now wore was genuine, and Hanzo found it easy to mirror. Clinking the glasses together, the men downed the first of many mouthfuls. They occupied the corner and talked of what seemed to Hanzo like everything under the sun, until the light once more dipped below the rooftops and the exhaustion of the previous night had finally caught up with them. Powering through their drunken haze and tired torpor they stumbled back to the safe house, a quaint apartment on the south side of the Thames that hid itself well behind the train tracks and bridges.  
  
“Hey?” McCree said, after being silent for a small while as they debriefed over the phone with Winston. Shrugging off his outerwear for more comfortable clothes, Hanzo let down his top knot as he turned to the gunslinger.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
Removed of his cowboy boots, hat and obnoxious belt buckle, Jesse McCree looked somehow smaller in the room’s dim light. Humbled. “Thank you, Hanzo. For everythin’.”  
  
Hanzo offered the cowboy a rare Shimada Smile, and spoke words heavy with genuity he had not thought possible of himself until he met this ridiculous man-  
  
“You are welcome, McCree.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!
> 
> Incidentally the pub they go to is based on one I went to recently called "The Sun and 13 Cantons". Cute place, if you're ever in London!
> 
> Quick japanese translation guide:  
> \- anjia = brother  
> \- sasuga = "as expected", but this is has more of a feeling of "only you could have done that".


End file.
